'Is it just, that how we manage, is not by love but force of habit?'

On the cement the outline of a rainbow lay in splattered paint. We had drawn it in the morning, in worn clothes with stiff paintbrushes, fingers numb with cold. The colors were wrong, blue put next to red, and the picture had dried messy and faint, the rain washed it and I watched the paint trickle away, the colours mixed in with the rain and ran down the gutter. Light made way for dark, the sky opened and softened. My breaths were slow and quiet to match the world, I shut my eyes and felt the darkening of the sky in my eyelids, smoky reds and purples and oranges grew faint, the rain thrummed, my breath murmured. The soap mixed in with the water, which mixed in with the paint, everything blurred and disappeared, 'surely this is metaphorical of something.' The rain fluttered down the sunset; Radiohead said 'I'm not living, I'm just killing time.' So much emotion is in everything.

'If I could be, who you wanted, If I could be, who you wanted. All the time. All the time....'